I had a thought, well I thought I did. But it’s gone now, if ever it existed. How often does that happen, have a thought, one you think is fairly good, then it disappears, leaving the faint trace of a memory of a memory, the thought that a thought once existed? How many of our memories are but shadows of memories, darkened by time, even when that time is just a moment? How much of what we remember never occurred, imagination colouring in the black holes of our experience? Where do our memories go? Shaped, changed, edited and re-edited by new experience and gained information. I remember reading Les Miserables for the second time, oh 11 years ago. There was a scene that I remembered vividly from my reading 12 years prior, I can’t recall which scene it was. But upon re-reading, after the lapse of time, that scene was nothing like I remembered. The same with one of my then favourite science fiction novels, Count Zero. I had read it in serial form in some sci-fi magazine and loved it. I saw it somewhere and wanted to share it with Shannon, when we were still together, so I bought it and she read it. After her I read it again, it was not the story I had remembered from ten years earlier. How could my memory be so faulty? So faulty with what I remembered so vividly, memory. Yet my certainty failed me, my memory failed me. Not that I forgot, but that what I remembered wasn’t anything like what the facts were. I thought that maybe that Count Zero had changed from the serial in the magazine to the published book and wrote it off as that. But Les Miserables was the same version, the same translation that I had read earlier, well I think it was. How am I to think about the events of my life, do I trust my memories of them? Can I? Should I? What caused me to think of these stories one way and their, actually, being another? How do I account for that? It isn’t all books, The Hobbit remained the same, so did The Lord of the Rings, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and most all other books that I went back to re-read. What was it about these two particular books that had me remembering them so differently? Yet, it wasn’t the whole of Les Miserables, just a particular scene. With Count Zero it was like I was reading a completely different book from the one I had read serialized in the magazine. All this brings me back to my memory of having a thought today, a thought worth writing about, yet it is no longer here, vanished. Did I really have a thought or was it the product of a created memory? What could that thought have been? It was today, not so many hours ago, where could it have gone? Where do memories go when we forget? When they return are they the same ones that had left? Can we know? Thoughts and questions such as these can send me into strange loops, recursive thinking, not unlike the fugues of Bach. Spiraling down, or is it up? Who can tell, spiraling can get one so dizzy that there is no distinction betwixt up and down, in and out. Well until that point when the spiraling tightens, traps and panic sets in. When I wake from these dreams I fear sleep, because my Hell is being trapped. Spiraling thoughts, claustrophobic, leading to Hell. Searching for memories that may have never been there, yet feel so real. Searching through the blackness and emptiness of forgotten thoughts, lapsed memories. Looking, searching for completeness. Completeness that once existed, or never was. Where do out memories go when we forget? We often find something, but is it really what we were searching for? Is it a copy? A replica? A cheap imitation, a knock-off, a forgery? Mining the mind for that which was forgotten because we believe that it must still exist, if only we search long and hard enough. Maddening, lost in the labyrinth turning first this way then that. No matter which way we turn, which path we follow we spiral deeper and deeper, darker and darker. Waking is the only escape, but were we not awake when we began the journey? Are we not awake now? How then do we wake up? Now, was there a thought? Or only a shadow of a memory of a thought?